


like sin and chlorine

by doreah



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV)
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, Episode: s03e04 God Bless the Child, F/F, Missing Scene, Swimming Pools, Water Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-04-23 07:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19146553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doreah/pseuds/doreah
Summary: Serena kisses her like she’s screaming for help.





	like sin and chlorine

**Author's Note:**

> this was meant to be a fun crack!fic of something that would never happen in a million years. but then i got serious. it's still something that would never happen in a million years, but not fun an fluffy as i saw it in my head. honestly, i just wanted them to go for a cheeky swim in that gorgeous pool and then this came out instead. i sorta blame [bishop briggs and liela moss](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/77vvidrX9U45HY545JjgVJ?si=1QBK-53DSR-DAM-dLTzk3A).

Her cigarette is nearly done, ashes pilling in a tidy heap by her side, when Serena’s voice floats through the silence. 

“Naomi doesn’t allow anybody in this pool, you know.” 

She snickers, just a little. 

“Not even Warren.” 

Of course Naomi Putnam would impose such arbitrary, controlling rules. The deck chair creaks as Serena stands, her heels slowly clicking against the stone tiles until she reaches the edge of the water. With an impudent flick of her cigarette, ashes float down to the water’s surface, freckling the pristine mirror. 

For a moment, June merely watches, saying nothing but curious about Serena’s brazen disregard for her own friend’s property. She’d claimed that she wasn’t _that_ person anymore, whatever person she thought she once was, but this sort of bullish behaviour seems not to have dissipated at all. There’s an uncomfortable scratch of doubt, somewhere in the back of her mind, about whether Serena has actually changed in any substantial way whatsoever. 

The temptation is there though. June shuffles over to the pool to stand next to the stern blue statue, her brown boots precariously close to the edge. It’s not a far drop. Nothing like the fall Eden took to her death. That was the last time she sat near Serena, beside a swimming pool. June wonders if Serena is thinking the same thing. With just that moment, swimming pools had become so much more ominous than they ever had been before. At least there are no iron barbells marking the graves of heretics in this one. The bottom of the pool is blue and clear, the tiny square tiles stretching from the deep end to the shallow. 

Serena sighs, and it’s a strange sound, too unfamiliar and fatigued. It seems to sing in time to the light steam arising from the warm pool. 

She hesitates only briefly before tossing the butt into the water, shattering the reflection of red and blue, side by side. The sizzle is short-lived but followed not long after by June’s own cigarette hitting the surface. 

Is this rebellion? Does such a trivial thing mean anything at all? It just seems like petulance, but then most things do these days when nothing comes as a result of action. 

“When was the last time you went swimming?” June allows her voice to bounce off the empty walls, just loudly enough, and sneaks a glance to her right to study the reaction. As usual, she barely flinches. That’s the Serena Joy June knows all too well. A slight cock of her head; a tendril of blonde hair escapes down her neck. Despite the impeccable care she’s once again taking with herself, the broken shards are still falling loose around the edges, like the aftershocks of an earthquake. 

Without answering, Serena gazes across the water. “When did you?” 

The question is jarring, and maybe that’s why she’d refused to approach it herself. It forces memories out into the open, the longing wisps of a history that has long past and may never be again. Talking about the time before Gilead always opened such wounds, the white, aged scars that seemed so tight and secure. 

There’s a long silence between them with only the low drone of the pool filter for company. 

“It was with Hannah.” Her breath catches with the effort. “We took her to the community centre for free swim. She loved the waterslide. I always thought they put too much chlorine in the water though. She’d come home with itchy red eyes and her skin would smell like bleach for days, even after a long bath. But her face—the way she laughed when she’d hit that water... ” The story fades out as a cigarette butt floats in front of her. She can feel Serena's gaze locked on her, as she does often now.

“When are you being taken home?” 

June grunts a little at the insinuation that any place here is her home, or ever could be. There’s no such thing for a Handmaid. There are only postings, and the Red Centre. And whatever fresh Hell comes after all that. Even the country itself isn’t home. They can dress it up with familiar symbols, hymns, and comfortable pillows, but a prison is never a home. 

It’s easy to see that she’s stalling, doing everything in her power not to go back upstairs and force a rekindling of her marriage to the Commander, as pathetic as he is, just for a larger purpose. There are many different sorts of prisons here for women, some of which are chosen by their captives. 

With a shrug, June replies, “Whenever they feel like it.” Much like Serena’s tantrums, Lawrence’s or Aunt Lydia’s whims and fancies are only mildly unpredictable now. 

“Good.” 

She bends over, and slides her blue pumps off, kicking them over to the lounge chairs. Striding over to the chair with a quiet determination, her hand reaches back for the zipper of her blue skirt, her entire uniform. There’s little for June to do but stare, confused, at the scene revealing itself before her. 

Burning a house down is pretty dramatic but, really, when it comes down to it, a somewhat reasonable response to years of imprisonment and the overwhelming grief of a suddenly pointless, empty life. This is something altogether different. Serena Joy Waterford may finally have lost her mind. 

Her dress falls with a soft rustle to the white pool deck, like a wilting flower against the first snowfall in autumn. With it comes the same anxious dread. She pulls at the strap around her wrist, carelessly dumping the handmade prosthetic onto the seat and stands again, surveying her mess in a navy blue slip. The light is bright, shining in through the crystal clean windows but she still appears like a ghost, an icy blue spectre of another world, or an angel. Fallen. A dying angel. 

Any moment, anybody could walk in. Surely she’s aware of that? But again, June stays silent, wishing for it all to be over, whatever this strange exercise is. Mrs. Putnam won’t punish Serena of course, but a Handmaid is another story. She’s never been overly fond of any woman who wears red, and any friend of Janine’s is even worse off. 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Her voice cuts coldly through the humid air. 

A leaden feeling permeates each limb as June merely stares at the sick spectacle unfolding. Serena pulls at her slip, and a spike of jealousy flows through the cool air as it meets her dress on the floor. Of course Wives are still allowed the normal feminine underwear of pre-Gilead, not the bulky linen shorts and uncomfortable, restrictive undershirts Handmaids are issued. It’s little privileges like that, the way such trivial things create division by resentment, that are poison to any precarious alliances. Serena leaves those garments in place. 

“Swimming isn’t illegal,” she continues, as if it makes a difference what is and what isn’t illegal here. It’s only about what they want to punish a person for and what they want to conceal. Light pink scars peek out from Serena's bikini briefs reminding them both of that truth and it makes June tremble just a little seeing that for the first time. 

June doesn’t have time for waxing philosophical about vague legalities. “For a Wife, maybe.” 

The red uniform isn’t quite so forgiving. 

Serena looks over, passing a glance that at once seems dismissive and concerned in equal measure. She’s full of contradictions, just like her precious Bible. 

It’s a new world now, seeing her almost naked body on full display as if she has no concept of the place she is or the role she plays. _Careless. Reckless_. And Mrs. Waterford has never been that before. 

She’s not wrong, of course, about the laws. Aunt Lydia never mentioned anything about swimming, nor the punishment for it. Surely if it was a problem, they would have drained all the pools, just like they changed all the signs to pictograms instead of simple words because Gilead couldn't trust women not to read. It surely couldn’t trust them not to swim, if that were an issue. It’s more the idea of a Wife and a Handmaid frolicking in a neighbour’s private swimming pool that likely would raise a red flag for some control freak Commander somewhere. Or Mrs. Putnam herself. 

Oh, the ungodly indecency of it all. 

“I used to be a varsity swimmer,” she states as she stands stiffly overlooking the calm water. It’s not really to anybody at all but June wonders if she’s thinking about Nichole as well. It’s impossible not to, and she’s all Serena can ever talk about anymore. 

Everything is a test in Gilead: of piety, of obedience, of boundaries, of limits, and this ordeal is no different. What is unclear is the purpose of Serena’s impulsive exam. June’s been manipulating Serena, teasing her, playing on her sensitive emotions and obvious vulnerability for weeks now in some defiant attempt to gather allies with power. Strangely, and certainly regrettably, both of those concepts as they relate to Serena still remain hypothetical. Whether she's an ally or not is unclear; whether she’s powerful or not is also debatable. But it's all June has at the moment, so she twists motherhood into a weapon, whittling away at Serena's armour just in case Serena becomes either. 

Perhaps this is about trust, then. 

And the water is tempting. 

Serena slides into the deep end of the Putnam's pool without hesitation, as if she belongs to the water itself. 

Finally, June concedes. She carefully pulls the sweatshirt over her head, watching the white shuttered doors for even a shadow. There's no telling what could happen now if a discovery is made of this not illegal, but definitely inappropriate adventure. Her heart beats faster. Next comes her red dress, bleeding on the floor. _Blood on snow_. The contrast is too much, too bright. Her white bonnet joins the dress, discarded. 

Wives have the benefit of acceptable enough underwear but June is left standing in ill-fitting, unseemly white underclothes, unsuitable for splashing about in a pool. 

“It’s nothing I haven't seen before.” Serena Joy's impatient voice echoes across the water, almost irritated at the time it's taking for June to make a decision. 

What Serena has or hasn't seen is not really the concern, and never has been. What about a wandering Martha, or a Commander? What about Lawrence coming to get his Handmaid? What about Aunt Lydia? What about an already angry, frustrated, and jealous Fred? It seems far too dangerous. 

But, really, if this childish disobedience is too intimidating, how can anybody expect to start a revolution? 

Serena slips onto her back, floating aimlessly, _waiting_. She's having the time of her fucking life. 

Insanity. It's the only excuse. 

Skinny dipping was something she and Moira did with friends when they would all drink too much at beach parties during college. There were no serious consequences to that, just hangovers the next day. Something about the act now is not only unholy, but full of treacherous significance. It may not be a written law but surely such indecency would require some form of punishment, not for Serena of course, but for a lowly Handmaid. 

June lingers on the side of the pool, debating silently and watching the ripples lap against the side of the pool as Serena moves on the other side. Tiny, little waves, one after another, reverently kissing the cool stone. What a thrill a huge splash would be. How destructive. 

It’s time to make a decision one way or another: to leave Serena Joy to her clear and present breakdown in peace, or join in. Sometimes there are only two choices, and neither one is particularly good. 

A compromise perhaps, June slips into the water, underclothes and all, maintaining the facade of modesty and the water is warm. Not too warm, like sometimes a hot tub could be, back when those existed, but pleasant. The hypocrisy of this perfectly-heated but unused pool isn’t lost on June. Saving energy, the environment, the virtues of simplicity and humility, all that is ignored here. This is only opulence for its own sake. It’s Gilead on full display. 

But it is divine. 

“Finally.” The voice is getting closer and the pucker of the waves intensifies against June’s skin. 

“Finally,” June counters, treading water slowly and thankful that she hasn’t forgotten how to swim. Certain things, when you abandon all concept of them in everyday life, seem like they could easily be lost. It doesn’t seem like keeping above water is one of them. 

Momentarily, June wonders where those cigarette butts are. Maybe stuck in the filter. It doesn’t really matter but Gilead has taught her to be aware of the minuscule details, because those are the only things that ever change. 

Oblivious to any concerns, Serena’s voice is breathy and light. “Isn’t it wonderful?” 

She’s very close; so close June can feel the rush of every stroke as she treads water. Serena Joy and simple contentment have always seemed like diametrically opposed forces. Not once in three years had June witnessed their true coexistence, not even with Nichole. 

June lies back in the water, floating, staring at the speckled ceiling, the sunlight bouncing over it in small shards, like knives of light. Idly, she flutters a hand out, moving slowly through the water. Although her ears are slightly submerged, there is a voice tickling through the lapping waves. 

“Thou calledst in trouble, and I delivered thee; I answered thee in the secret place of thunder: I proved thee at the waters.” 

The sound fades out and when June finally looks around again, Serena is holding tightly to the pool’s edge, pulling herself along towards the shallows. 

There’s a strange magnetism she emits, and June knows well how pointless it is to resist. At first, it seemed like an active decision made with full reason: approaching her insistently to wear Serena’s defences down slowly, imperceptibly. Over time, it had become less of a choice, and more of a need. How many times could she have simply walked away, walked by, ignored the ugly blue misery lurking in the corners? She could have left her to cry over Nichole’s crib in the dark, left her to wallow in self-pity without a finger, stood stoically as Serena cried instead of taking her into her arms. She could have left her in that burning bedroom, pushed her onto that fucking bed instead. That would have been a simple thing to do, requiring not much more than a blind eye. Mrs. Waterford, burned alive amongst the wreckage of a Hell she created for herself. June could have escaped, and brought Rita with her. Nobody would have rushed back in for Serena, not even the Commander despite all his bravado. 

But instead June entered the inferno, just like every time. She waited, called for Serena the same way she could feel Serena calling for her, waited even longer for their hands to join, and led her away from death. Such a hard woman with such soft hands. 

It’s the same invisible pull now as she follows Serena into the shallow end. 

She’s there waiting too as June glides up to her. Standing on solid ground feels like a different place. The weightlessness of deep water makes the whole world less harrowing, as if its inconsequential somehow. Seeing Serena’s skin pucker in the cool air out of the warm water is a reminder that Gilead is still out there, just behind the glass. 

“Do you miss it?” 

The question is too vague for June to answer immediately. She’d become accustomed to Serena’s casual quizzes about Nichole, about grief, about motherhood, about tenuous and often theoretical alliances. What is “it” this time? 

When Serena’s gaze sweeps down, the meaning becomes slightly less opaque unlike the translucent white of June’s soaked undershirt. Her lips fall open just a little and June knows the weight of that expression too well now. 

 _It_ is something that had slipped into repressed history, it lingered in that bizarre and amicable interlude when Fred was in hospital and Nick was mostly absent. It had begun with Serena hovering too close, reading over June’s shoulder and her breath hot on her neck. A brush of a hand after that, maybe it had been an accident the first time. The fifth time was on purpose. Late nights, reading, the glow of a fireplace and gentle Motown on Fred’s turntable seemed too much like a seduction. He’d tried the same tricks but when Serena had made her move, it was nothing like the Commander. Serena's needs are so much simpler, more pitiful almost and June likes her better.

In retrospect, it hadn't been much of a move at all really. Just one of those moments when two people are standing closer than usual, sharing space that is normally reserved for just one. It's intimate but not necessarily meaningful in any way. The air prickles, charged tiny particles colliding and energized. Someone's breath hitches just that small amount; it's abnormal and inexplicable. Maybe one person gets that tingle up the back of their neck, like June did. Maybe the other gets a rush of goosebumps, like Serena did. 

Then something heavy descends and stalls time, only briefly, and only long enough to give everyone the chance to back out. But Serena hadn't moved away then, and June hadn't wanted to. A tug of war between sin and longing, or maybe it’s merely loneliness. _Longing_ seems too profound somehow when this appears to be anything but. 

Ragged sighs and greedy touches led way into heavy pants and determined kisses, and more boldly, hands under skirts and Serena’s discarded pride on the floor. June had none left to lose. Another dirty secret owned by the darkness of Fred’s office. 

Weeks later _He’s coming home tomorrow_ , became the nails on a chalkboard of reality. June can still recall the way her stomach lurched, the cold hard shock of the real world invading this quiet, clandestine space as the truth punctured her blood. 

She can see the look on Serena’s face: disappointment, a forced relief, and the pleading hint of a question she could never give birth to aloud:  _One more night?_  

She gave it to her. 

And nothing since. It was too dangerous, and too pointless when Nick returned. And June hated her too much for too long to count it as anything more than a blip in the regular routine of the household. The Commander, with his belt and guarded knowledge of Serena’s boundless insecurity, assured everyone of regularity once again. Then Serena herself drove the final nails in the coffin. 

This is too similar to then, but brazenly more foolish. Closed doors and a quiet house were a far cry from a glass walls and a bustling party upstairs. Serena’s loose grip on sanity seems to be nothing but contributory to this reckless behaviour; she has nothing left to lose perhaps. June knows that feeling too. Instead of waiting, hanging precariously in that netherworld between _do_ and _don’t_ , she glides closer, pushing them both into slightly deeper water again, moving against June as if the mere act of gender treachery alone is not a death sentence for them both. 

The desperate and stupid nature of Serena’s misery is no match for rational thought, and no matter how much June knows that she should end this, there’s an empty space that longs for a touch which can break the system to pieces. Acquaintances with power, that’s all this is. The building of alliances. June knows there is no such thing as friendship, not with a person like _Mrs. Waterford—_ the ugly persona that must reemerge for a rebellion to take hold. 

There’s a forgotten yet familiar feeling when Serena’s lips crash down. June can smell hot orange pekoe tea, hear the crackle of a fireplace, feel the rush of sliding a pen across paper for the first time in years. Small freedoms, taken for granted even then. The small groan that June lets slip is not intentional, it’s not part of her overall plan to lure Serena to the side of the light for once in her life. It just feels _good_. 

She’s trapped June in her arms, against the cool side of the pool, as her mouth works along June’s jaw, her neck, the dip and crest of her clavicle. It's so easy to grab onto Serena, grasp her head between wet palms and anchor her in place like she desperately needs to be now because she’s almost completely untethered. 

When June runs her tongue over Serena's swollen, eager lips, everything tastes like sin and chlorine. It's been so long since she's been kissed just like this, like she's something that someone can't even breathe without. 

June thinks it might never have been that way; she was normally the one clawing for connection and demanding attention. And Nick, well, the last time he kissed her it was like he was saying a long goodbye, which it was, and it was so much more. 

Serena kisses like she’s screaming for help. 

It throws her off her game, off her carefully constructed project. June doesn’t quite know what to make of that anymore. Once, way before, she could have taken it in and used it somehow, maybe even enjoyed the power. But here in Naomi Putnam's stupid swimming pool, here with Serena touching her over the sheer fabric of a wet cotton undershirt, pushing a thigh in between, up, tightly against her, and the taste of just smoked cigarettes in her mouth, it’s nauseating. Not the same as having too many tequila shots on a girls night out. No, more like those rickety fairground roller-coasters, with their dipping, lurching, and rising, the fear and exhilaration all bundled tightly into an amazing 45-second thrill ride. 

June doesn't hate it, especially not now as the arousal begins to balloon up from its hidden place like a bear in springtime, once again. The water is so warm, flushing up against the inches of bare skin that Serena exposes. And the smell of bleach, of chemicals made for preservation and stasis, fade into the background, far behind the itch that Serena's breathy sighs manage to twist out. Nothing here is static; everything is slippery chaos. 

It’s fucking terrifying. 

She pushes off the side of the pool, easily swinging around, pushing Serena back against the pool wall. Her fingers move deftly under the elastic of a Wife’s uniform briefs, and it catches Serena off guard. It's probably unnecessary to be so spontaneous and unexpected, but hearing the surprised moan is more gratifying than any smuggled cigarette will ever be. 

The thing is: she's sampled what it's like to have Serena wrapped around her finger, how malleable she is when vulnerable and isolated. Maybe that’s something that should be worrisome, to a better person. How much of this is learned from the Commander? Are the tactics really much different? June doesn't want to give up that power. Not quite yet. Not when she's so close to making some sort of headway through Serena’s stubborn, stony facade. 

Serena allows her forehead to fall heavily against June’s shoulder and it's become a familiar pose now. Except this time Serena has no red fabric to clutch onto, only wet and flimsy undershirt straps, and June only has one free hand to hold her head with. Her fingers are insistently moving in a purposeful rhythm between Serena’s thighs with one eye always on the pool doors. It's getting harder to concentrate on the looming threat however. 

Not when Serena is gripping so tightly to her bare shoulders. Especially not when she’s whimpering like she is. 

June would really prefer the screaming kisses; this makes her feel too guilty. So, the simple solution is usually the best one. It doesn't hurt that it also allows her own body a little release. Grasping Serena by the back of the neck, June presses her lips against her open mouth, swallowing the sounds. It’s quieter now. Briefly. 

“Deliver me out of the mire,” Serena rasps against her lips, her voice catching on every intake of breath. She can barely get the words out between pants, moans, and kisses. “Let me—” a kiss, a sharp breath— “not sink.” 

Maybe this is Serena’s attempt to sanctify this sinful act, to make it palatable and holy with prayer. Maybe she is just praising God in her own self-centered way. 

June can precisely feel the way Serena’s hips are moving in the water, pulsing, small waves rippling out from where their bodies meet. Her hands grab tightly around June’s jaw, claiming her mouth again and again until the words continue to inch out, each one more strangled than the last. 

“Let me be delivered from... them that hate me,” she groans as June slides deeper, nipping along a chlorine-laced neck. She’s barely able to take a breath. “And out of the deep waters.” 

She's gasping, over and over, and June can't help the way her own body responds to the cries in her ear; it thrums in time with every pulse and desperate sigh. Tense and slick, Serena's getting more feverish, as June presses her palm even more firmly against her clit, creating the friction she needs.

Serena comes hard. Maybe harder than June’s ever seen. Not once during those strange office episodes, that strange hiatus from real Gilead life, had she been so completely undone. Her hands are pinching and clenching June’s shoulders, almost to the point of bruising. The sound of her heavy breathing and husky moans echo off the water, off the stone walls, and if anybody is lurking outside, they’re sure to know exactly what is happening on the other side of the flimsy wooden doors. It feels significant, this ability to place her mouth on Serena’s neck as she writhes and draw out an even louder mewling moan. 

For a long minute, June takes in the vision, so up close and alien. She’s a visitor to this other planet where the rules are bending and warping at such speeds that she can’t keep up any longer. But it feels satisfying to witness the pink flush of Serena’s chest and the heaving of her shoulders, and that glazed look of awe for just the faintest second before she realises the situation. Again. 

Instead of moving away this time, she remains glued to the pool’s edge, slipping down further into the warm water and trying to catch her breath. Her grip on June’s body lessens and the air immediately begins to cool. 

June wonders often whether she’s brave or an idiot. Maybe both? 

Reaching out to grab her hand, June presses up against the woman who seems to be set on running away once again. With something akin to relief, and a small dash of arrogance, she sighs as Serena kisses her back. For one tiny moment, she thinks perhaps this could keep going, that Serena will give back what she’s taken. She has done so in the past with a kind of earnest devotion that would make God jealous. 

And then June is coldly reminded that some people never change. 

Despite Serena’s eager lips, her probing tongue, the way her hands rove under the white undershirt, dip just teasingly past her waistband, her hips pushing fervidly, nothing much comes of it. The way her fingers tremble as they brush over June’s skin make it clear that if this was a different place, maybe even a different time, like 7 years ago or 7 years in the future (hopefully), Serena may have entertained something more. 

Instead, she drags her mouth away, sighing heavily. “I need a smoke.” 

With a twist, she swims back into the deep water, purposeful strokes taking her deeper and farther away. And June is left standing in the shallows with empty hands, a throbbing, lonely ache deep in her abdomen, and a chill starting to rumble under her skin. 

As fucking always. 

That’s it. Playtime is over, as she’s so harshly and often abruptly reminded of when it comes to Serena Joy. 

For a brief moment, as they're standing dripping side by side on the pool deck, June catches the wayward glance, up and down her body through the wet white cotton, and knows exactly what Serena still wants. Her chest flushes red and her breath hitches, her fingers clenching around a towel. It’s the same species of connection Serena’s always been missing, never known to seek, never known how to find. How lonely a life it must be to be so far removed from her natural desire. But she’s chosen it, over and over, even when she has the chance to pick a different path. 

Because Mrs. Waterford is a coward. 

Yet, still, she’s a coward that June needs onside. _Wear the dress, pull the strings—if you’re strong enough_. 

Reaching over, Serena shakes off her immodest desire and hands her a fluffy white towel before turning her back, demurely stripping free of her bra and underwear as if they didn’t just fuck in an almost-stranger’s swimming pool, in broad daylight. Regardless, June does the same, towelling dry, before pulling on her red uniform. It’s scratchy without the undergarments; everything has a purpose here in Gilead. There is nothing superfluous… except this goddamn pool. There's an itch against her damp skin. She’s never realised that her skirt does this before. At least Serena has the advantage of a comfortable satin slip. 

 _Fuck her_ , June thinks again. There’s that resentment. _They_ put it there. They feed and nurture it, with these little trinkets of privilege. It gets to even the best of women. June hates herself for that superficial weakness. 

But then she hates herself for a lot of things, present company included. 

Serena's dressed again by the time June turns back around with a smirk. She has a towel pressed to the back of her head, soaking up any drips. With a laboured and over-dramatic sigh, Serena sits down on the lounge chair, leaning back. A lit cigarette once again dangles between her fingers. She doesn't offer June another, not like last time but she also doesn't complain when June takes the case and lights up. 

It strikes June as a little funny, this experience. Odd and draining, but funny all the same. 

Maybe Serena does too, but more than anything, she just seems satisfied.

 

* * *

 

The sun sets quickly in winter. Maybe it's an hour they've been missing from the party upstairs, maybe less. Probably more. The fact nobody has coming looking could be a good sign. 

 _Oh, Ofjoseph and Mrs. Waterford are off on an adventure again._  

 _How precious._  

As if. 

Gilead is teetering on the edge of barely controlled chaos at the moment, and allowing a Handmaid and a Wife to wander off for hours on end together would never be tolerated before. And this particular Handmaid with this particular Wife, after everything that had happened in that house? It could only be trouble. Everyone knows that. 

If only, June thinks. If only Serena would cause trouble again. Whatever happened to that Mrs. Waterford from the first day in their household? She longs to scream: _You've been heaped with trouble; why aren’t you giving it back?_  

As the sun goes down, they do nothing but smoke in near silence and have stifled, careful conversations about Nichole as Serena subtly hints about her reluctance to repair her marriage. A minefield seems like a walk in the park compared to conversations like this. She won’t come out and just say it, and that’s probably because she believes, in some deluded way, that Fred is the answer to solving her problems and easing her discomfort. June can’t be sure; it could simply be that Serena is lazy. Or too broken. 

It strikes June suddenly how fucked up it is that she's become her captor's most trusted confidante. The same terrifying woman that used to smack her, hold her down to be raped, is the same one crying on her shoulder about the baby she stole and seeking out her company at parties. Sucking up June's empathy through a straw like a she's an oasis in the desert.

It's probably more fucked up that, often, June doesn't mind. She sort of likes it. She wants Serena to touch her in that way she does, she wants to bear witness to the helplessness in such a formidable beast. A little stupid part of her even believes she can own it. Just her. Not Fred, not Gilead. June Osborne has that ability alone. She has something no one—not even the Commander—can control. Maybe that's a thirst for power? Maybe she sees herself in Serena in some messed up way.

Whatever justification or excuse she makes for her own selfish desire doesn't matter in the long run. There's a game being played and after all these years she's making the rules.

Eventually, June touches her hair; it’s dry enough now and Serena is almost out of cigarettes. Perhaps it's time to leave this cooling otherworld. 

They reach the door at the same moment and it's almost like in Fred's study the first time. Too close. 

The wooden shutters clack against the glass window as Serena swoops down one last time, her lips warm, wet, and smokey. There's no way she'll get away with that, and June retaliates, grabbing hold of her arms, gripping so hard she hopes to leave a bruise. It knocks the wind out Serena and lasts much longer than she expects, making them both stumble back against the door frame. That's all she wanted: to catch her breathless and off guard again, to rip her out of her smug, controlled comfort zone. 

In the resulting daze, June swings open the door, holding it ajar and letting Serena lead the way back to the party. 

Her gait is strange, a little wobbly, like a baby deer finding its new legs and a smirk crosses June’s lips at the reason why, still feeling the way Serena gyrated desperately against her hand, begging for release, shaking like a dried leaf in a winter breeze. 

And she's not wearing any underwear. Nobody else at this party knows that little secret. 

A Martha will no doubt find the damp pile of discarded underclothes tucked away behind the planter pot at a later date. June wishes she could see the look on her face when she realizes it's both a Wife and Handmaid's clothes. How scandalous. 

When her eyes meet the Commander’s, curiosity turns into something uglier, a sort of anger, jealousy even. But June knows she’s played her part, she’s needled Serena enough, convinced her as best as she can to return to him. It’s a filthy sort of feeling, knowing she’s on Fred’s team. And what for? What does the Commander think she’s getting out this? It doesn’t really matter though because he’s never cared about the complex inner lives of women in his purview. He probably believes that June is doing it because she just cares so much for his well-being. Ego is such a blindfold for the weak. 

Even so, he sees something in their entrance together. Maybe he doesn’t know, but he does. He has _always_ known, on some level. 

The invisible tethers that rope her and Serena break finally when Mrs. Putnam offers to put the baby in Serena’s arms and she backs away, into Fred’s covetous, waiting hands. Janine is no small distraction either. 

Some inevitable screaming and a predictable beating later, the party’s over with a dramatic sweep. Apparently, there's only so much corporeal punishment that the ignorant richlings can stomach in their candle-lit living room and all these crying women spoil the taste of the fancy canapes.

Of course there ain’t no party like a Gilead party. 

With its unseemly end goes the tenuous connections June had woven, or she thinks. It’s always been this way with the Waterfords. Their last name should be synonymous with laser-focused self-interest, but still, June recalls the way Serena pulls at her when nobody is watching, the way her own skin prickles and her bones ache, hungry. Serena’s kisses, like fire and heroin. 

Sure, hard drugs are in short supply now, but humans can make addictions out of anything at all. 

Later, a slow click of heels against marble. Sometimes June has to wonder if Serena is actually as stupid as she behaves, or just particularly awkward about making small talk and connections with other women. After a truly asinine comment about how great Gilead is, she recognizes her mistake when June throws a cold shoulder.

Skipping just a short beat, Serena crowds into the empty space, heat radiating in thick waves as she leans down, whispering secrets about Hannah. Her hand brushes the back of June’s, light enough to seem accidental but June feels it the same as a prick of a needle in her arm, her veins flooding with intoxicating warmth with just a tiny gesture. She tells herself it’s the thought of Hannah, of seeing her baby again instead. It’s probably both, really if she wants to be honest and the fact her past and present are so tightly intertwined now should be terrifying. 

Suddenly there’s the Eyes, and the Waterfords, and on a screen in front of them: Luke and Nichole, all tangled together, with June on the outside. A cool rush of relief sweeps over her; her baby is safe with her husband, far away in Canada and Serena is within touching distance of the Commander’s power again. They can all come together. That’s the plan. She knows better than to hope too much here but the pieces are finally falling into place after all this time, after each measured and slow movement. She’s got them all lining up, owning little bits of each. 

While they’re all distracted with the digital images of her baby who is far away from their grubby clutches, she’s still the one that knows Serena Joy isn’t wearing any underwear, and why. 

All big waves start with a small ripple, after all.

 


End file.
